“No? Who is it?”
“Me.”
“Is this a long-distance flirtation with an official Britisher, all wound round with red tape? What kind of fetters?”
“Well, not personal, exactly,” reluctantly admitted the girl. “Propaganda matter. It’s sent out by their press bureau. But it always comes addressed in nice, firm, man-ny handwriting.”
“But why do they send to you?”
Darcy giggled. “That’s the funny part of it. They must have got me confused with Dorsey Coles, the essayist. He used to live on East Fifty-Sixth Street.”
“Very likely. When does the Man enter?”
“We-ell, you see, Maud and Helen were awfully curious about my English correspondent.”
“Naturally.”
“So I—well, I just let ’em be.”